


you need an excuse for love

by greenonions



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Nude Photos, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Producer Pat, Sexting, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-16 22:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20610374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenonions/pseuds/greenonions
Summary: He refreshes real quick, and - there’s a new post that wasn’t there before, and Pat sits so bolt upright that Charlie disembarks from his lap and god is heawakenow, because the new post is from Brian, and it’s -Look, Pat doesn’t use the termthirst traplightly, or really even at all, but -Oh god, it’s a swipe-thru. There’stwopictures.





	you need an excuse for love

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this while stressed and struggling through Pat having Feelings™ in Bonus Action, lmao; the working title was "Writing fic for Trig at work because I'm sad." Y'all ever get real sad and creatively stifled while stuck at work so you write a whole smut fic on your phone at work, and also at the Chipotle you went to when you got off work? relatable? 
> 
> Anywho phonesex was kind of my calling card in my last Big Fandom so I'm breakin' the seal here now, mwah :**
> 
> Title is from ["Hurts A Little" by Stutter](https://open.spotify.com/album/6AO0ELGhKIzt8KCdJ0WCx2), one of my very favorite songs about masturbation! ♥

It’s been a while since Pat dragged himself through what he’d genuinely consider an “all nighter.” Like, he’s an old man now, he can’t be pulling this college kid shit, Charles is all up in his grill trying to nudge him to bed, but Pat knows if he bails on this script now he’s gonna basically have to start over at square one in the morning because all the threads of coherency are gonna slip straight out of his brain in his sleep. Not that he’s got a huge grip on them now, at - he checks the corner of his monitor morosely - 1:49 a.m., but he’s just close enough to finishing that he feels like he’s gotta stick it out. Time stops for no Gooigi.

Pat drags his hand over his face, then futilely back through his disheveled hair, and tries to focus up. And then immediately abandons focusing up and tabs over to surf social media, scratching at Charlie’s head with the other hand and breathing out just a little heavy, just a little beat to shit. “Break time,” he murmurs between Charles’s ears as he leans down to kiss his li’l head.

Twitter is predictably boring - all his east coast squad is smart enough to be asleep already, and maybe things would be popping off further west if it were the weekend, but it’s a Tuesday night/Wednesday morning and no one really gives a shit, he figures. Nothing’s happening on Twitch, either, except for one person he’s only like friends-of-friends with anyway live-riffing a movie he doesn’t even like. His YouTube subscriptions haven’t budged since he last checked less than six hours ago, and Facebook and Reddit are both just total shitholes, as per usual, and uugghh. He wants to be _distracted_, even just for a hot minute. If he’s not gonna find the sweet release of passing the fuck out, can’t he at least do the half-awake version and just like, _relax_?

Desperate, Pat takes himself to Instagram, for what is possibly the first time in weeks. There’s a few good kitty-cat ‘grams that bring a small smile to his face, make him scritch Charlie that much more vigorously. Simone posted a spicy shot of Jenna on her new scooter. Travis McElroy is Back At It Again, somewhere. He loses interest depressingly quickly, and scrolls back to the top, figuring he’ll check some random wrestling stories and just give up and head back to the fuckin’ drawing board. Maybe go retweet his tweet from a few months ago about how much writing sucks ass. 

He refreshes real quick, and - there’s a new post that wasn’t there before, and Pat sits so bolt upright that Charlie disembarks from his lap and god is he _awake_ now, because the new post is from Brian, and it’s -

Look, Pat doesn’t use the term _thirst trap_ lightly, or really even at all, but - 

The caption reads _sadly the new pajamas have left me vulnerable to certain tactical strikes._ It’s a mirror selfie of Brian in the less-than-ideal yellowy light of his bathroom, and he’s wearing….god, those _have_ to be designed as women’s clothes, pajamas or athleisure or something, it’s a white tank top and the _shortest_ pink shorts branded with Princess Peach looking her sporty best, and Brian is bulging out of them at literally every angle, his thick thighs and the breadth of his chest and shoulders. The clothes aren’t the wrong size for him, necessarily, not crazy tight or too too revealing, but they’re definitely the wrong shape and cut for what Brian’s working with, and it’s just like - well, it’s a little obscene, and definitely way NSFW, or NSF-brian you have thousands of fans who follow your Instagram account and will see this, what are you doing. Why are you posing with your foot propped up on the bathroom vanity, angled in profile so the long, bare line of your leg curving up to your ass is fully on display, is that like ostensibly to show off the shorts? Because come _on_, man -

Oh god, it’s a swipe-thru. There’s _two_ pictures.

Terrified, Pat clicks through to the second one, which is also a mirror selfie, but zoomed to a bit of a closer, tighter angle. Brian is - holy _shit -_ tugging down on the neckline of the tank top, exposing more of his clavicle and his right pec, and across his skin Pat can see the angry red rake of three cat-claw scratches. _Tactical strikes_, right, he must’ve got got by Zuko, Pat knows the drill, but his fingers are twisted tight into the soft fabric like he’s - like he’s _aching_, or some shit, and Pat swallows hard as he realizes he can feel himself twitching and hardening in his own loose pajama pants, fixated on the round shape of Brian’s pectoral muscle straining against the thin tank.

Listen, it’s two in the morning, it's a thirst trap, and Pat is already at his wits’ end, of _course_ he falls into it. 

Ever since they started discussing in earnest the likely third-season return of Gill & Gilbert, Pat’s felt - and knows that Brian has also felt - that good ol’ tension creeping back up between them, both living in mild fear and thrilling anticipation of the weird, nasty circumstances they’re doubtless gonna get themselves into this time. They went back and watched some old footage in a brainstorm session and the breathless way Brian stuttered over all his words pretty much constantly in their season 2 premiere had Pat feeling, as the kids say, some type of _way._ He’d been treacherously close to going home and scrubbing through a couple more, even though he usually hates watching himself back on stuff like this, just to find more spots where Brian giggled and teased and _flirted_ all over him. They’ve never exactly tried to _deny_ the undercurrent there, but after a year and a half off, it’s even more just, like, shamelessly visible in hindsight. (Brian had just laughed, about how young he already looked in some of the more dated videos, fixed Pat with a capital-l Look while saying _I’m so much more experienced now._ He meant like, in terms of video production at Polygon, but he also absolutely didn’t.) 

They both know where they stand: the air is knife-cuttably thick, and season 3 is very likely about to be the _guillotine, baby!_ (says Brian’s voice in the back of Pat’s head). They can both feel _something_ coming, it’s just a matter of what, exactly, and when, exactly.

Right now, terrifyingly, may just be when, approximately.

Pat opens the post in a new tab so he can really look at the two photos. It’s hard to say which is doing it more for him - the first one has more of Brian, his whole face and his long, tight legs, and it’s more _intentional_, it’s Brian feeling his oats and taking a cute pic. The second one, though, is brighter, closer, close enough that Pat can see the sheen of sweat across his exposed skin - oh, yeah, they’ve been having trouble with the heat in their new apartment - and god, just, the slope of his throat, the dip of his collarbone, the tension in his wrist, and just the lower half of his face in frame, the mild frown of his soft red mouth - 

Before Pat can chicken out, he _likes_ the post, and before he can feel too guilty about it, he drops his hand down and palms his cock a couple times through his pants. He’s harder now, not all the way there but interested, and if he was looking for a distraction from his work, he sure fuckin’ found one.

Pat’s commando under his pj pants, and he can feel where the head of his cock is slickening a little, the wet catching at the worn-out cotton. He lets his fingers linger there, rolling along the tip, _damn_ that’s good, and he thinks about Brian, about groping and squeezing him through those tiny pink shorts, about the way the muscle in his thighs would tremble as he tried not to succumb but Pat would _twist_ and make it so, so good on the bulge of Brian’s thick shaft -

Shit, for real - it’s 2019 and Pat considers himself a respectable level of woke, so like, come on. Is he seriously gonna sit here and jerk off to his hot coworker? 

Without _asking_ first?

Instagram is still designed busted and doesn’t let you DM on desktop, Pat notes wryly, so he paws around in the monitor-lit darkness of his room for his phone, unlocking it and pulling open the app. He’s gonna send the pic with the message, say something fake-scandalized but still, like, hot, okay, something good that opens with _damn, kid_ and maybe exploits the peach emoji. The app loads up but of course does that shitty shuffle, insisting on displaying non-chronologically, so Pat just goes straight to _briamgilbert_ outright and -

It’s not there.

Pat pulls down to refresh and it’s still not there. Oh, shit, did he already realize how poor an idea this was and delete it? Pat refreshes the site on his desktop, too, and yep, the lewds are gone. He knew Brian was smarter than that, but damn. 

Oh, he’s still got them open in that tab by themselves though, _oh._ Yeah, Pat fights through his horny, horny shame and screenshots it, both of them, fuck it. He pauses on the second one again, imagines for a split second licking over the razor-thin cat scratches with his whole mouth, up Brian’s chest to his neck. Double fuck it. Pat’s gonna message him anyway, because he’s _dying_ over here, completely hard by now and absolutely ready for this horny bubble to burst.

If he’s gonna message anyway, he might as well just text, because fuck Instagram, right? 

_ hey are you still awake? _

He obviously is, but Pat’s still surprised that the reply is almost instantaneous.

_ pat gill...are you seriously ‘u up’-ing me rn _

Pat barks out a genuine laugh into the dark of his room, startling Charles into moving, wherever he is now. Fuck, that is literally exactly what Pat is doing, but that doesn’t mean he has to dignify it with a response.

_ i saw those insta lewds you posted,_ he says instead. _before you deleted_

_yeah, and i saw you see them, u horny old fuck. they only got 12 likes before i took em down and pizza_suplex was conspicuously among them  
_ _ you got somethin to say about it? _

Pat… does, god he definitely does, (not least of all because wow he cannot believe eleven other people saw that shit that fast in the middle of the night, he is _terrified_ of Brian’s fanbase and the idea of having an unprivated account in general). But he wants to - say it _right_, say it hot, say it in the way that is gonna really drive home to Brian how serious he is about taking it there but also how stupid turned on he is right now. He types and deletes and types again, and he knows Brian can see that stupid ellipsis hovering on his end, but he keeps faltering.

And apparently he takes too long. Because -

— oh, _fuck -_

Another message comes through from Brian’s end, and there’s a picture attached. The picture is another shot from in the bathroom - Pat can see, so clearly, where this is an “outtake” from what did get posted, because this one’s got his leg propped up still, mirror selfie knee bent, but in this he’s much more forward-facing and instead of the side angle that shows the slope of his thick thigh into his ass, his knee is cocked outward, splayed open at the hips, and Pat can see the prominent, obscene - fucking _mouthwatering_ line of what’s gotta be his half-hard cock, crammed tight and absolutely filthy into shorts that were clearly never meant to accommodate one. Pat’s pretty sure he whites out for a hot second, sees those fireworks you get when you close your eyes too hard too fast, and feels a hot surge of blood rushing in his gut as his cock tries valiantly to get even harder than it already is. 

_go on, say it, patrick,_ says the text. And Pat has much, much less trouble composing his reply this time, he just says exactly what he said out loud into his empty room, which is:

_ FUCK, brian _

Fuck, Brian. 

Brian’s ellipsis rolls for a long, tense couple of seconds.

_you know i might have left those up a little bit longer, truth be told_  
_except for, the person for whom they were meant to be a trap already saw them_  
_i thought to myself, what’s it gonna take_  
_to finally get pat gill to fuck me_

“_Fuck_, Brian!”

_how long am i gonna have to wait this out when we BOTH know we got a big storm comin’ _  
_and it was real late, and i was real thirsty, and this seemed like as good a strat as anything_  
_you do wanna fuck me, don’t you, pat gill?_

Brian keeps saying his _name_, taking the time to type out his full name, and it’s _doing_ things to Pat because he can so clearly and vividly hear it the way he always says it, on stream, in the office, _Pat Gill_. Brian says it all the _time_ that way, and if it’s gonna be like that when they’re - when they’re _sexting_, when Brian is literally asking Pat to _fuck him_, it’s gonna really do a fuckin’ number on Pat’s gourd the next time he says it in a casual unhorny context. Pat whines _fuck_ to himself again and grinds the heel of his hand into the bulge of his dick just once - okay twice - three times more before he gets his phone in both hands to frantically text back.

_ brian, of course i want to fuck you  
_ _ fucking...look at you _

_oh i’m lookin, babey_  
_lookin and touchin_  
_you’re already touching yourself too, aren’t you_

Pat groans, hates himself for being that obvious, but he’s grinning, because _here_ we go.

_oh u know it_  
_you uh_  
_you wanna see?_

_UH _  
_YEAH, PATRICK_  
_hot damn!_

Pat breathes in and then out again, real deep, and then gets up to turn his lights on. He - like, okay, when it’s a big and anonymous viewership or even just a larger crowd of IRL randos, Pat’s super prone to getting really self-conscious about his looks, probably just a normal to-be-expected amount, like any other scared-of-aging thirtysomething who grew up nerdy and doesn’t eat great. But when he knows his target audience - _especially_ if he knows his target audience is _interested_ \- Pat can take a mean lewd. He sits at the foot of his bed and kicks his legs out long, shoving the waistband of his pants indecently low on his hips and whipping off his old t-shirt. Warms himself up, a little, stroking the wide flat of his hand slowly down his own torso from neck to crotch. When his hand meets his dick, still inside his pants but a long, obscene shape tenting straight up, he curls it all the way around, holds it there, flexes his arm _hard_ so the muscles and veins and tendons all pop into relief under his skin, till the tensile strength in his wrist will definitely be visible on camera. He angles the phone up and behind his shoulder - god, it’s clumsy, he has to take it six or seven times because he can’t see the viewfinder with the whole thing on the other side of his head - but when he gets the shot, it’s a wicked tunnel-vision angle all down the length of his own long, grasping arm, starting mid-bicep and ending in the place where he’s jerking himself off through his pajamas. There’s a decent accompanying stretch of his chest and stomach too and if you zoom in, you can _just_ see his toes curling with it against the floor. Pat flops onto his back in the bed and hits send. Then he gets his hand back on his cock, inside his pants this time, skin-to-skin and reveling in how good it feels, to feel this hot, feel this _wanted_, the anticipation of Brian’s reaction.

The first message he gets is just _ !!!!! _followed by three gun emojis. Then:

_okay!! GOD you look huge like that_  
_like you’ll be so deep inside me if i’m riding you_   
_can’t wait till i can just throw a leg over and sit right on your cock_

Pat groans, his hand spasming on his dick, imagining. Fuck, just, Brian here in his room with him just as it is right now, a rowdy flirty two a.m. booty call, climbing into his lap and sinking down over him - Pat ticks, mentally, back to that first Instagram image, Brian’s ass in those little Peach-patterned shorts, which, _oh god_, he’s probably still wearing, unless he’s already taken them off. God, it’s just - _grabbable_, is what it is, it’s not like Brian’s got a huge amount of meat on his bones or anything but he’s filled out in ways that Pat isn’t, necessarily, just enough that Pat is picturing getting a great big double handful as he thrusts up into him - oh fuck Pat is absolutely _fantasizing about how he’s going to fuck Brian David Gilbert._ Tonight really went off the rails in the most glorious way possible. 

_fuck brian i wanna fuck you so bad_  
_ASAP_  
_so hot_

_mmm, yes *sir*, i’m so hard for it, tell me eevverything_  
_waiting with bated breath bb_  
_and ‘bated...you know ;) ;) ;)_

Pat hangs his head and chuckles even as he fucks up into his fist a few more times, finally yanks his pajamas down and gets his cock free. Tries again to compose - the right thing to say, the witty, sexy thing to say. The thing that’s gonna make Brian fall apart just as hard as he is, hips twitching and right leg kicking out a little as his shoulders grind back into the mattress and he imagines, god, Brian, that Peach tank still stretched to a wrong shape across his toned chest, fully seated on his dick and panting from the effort. Pat can just fucking _feel_ it, the hot clutch of him, the muscles in his thighs working as he rides, Pat yanks his dick harder imagining Brian jerking himself off, too, threatening to spill all over Pat’s stomach when Pat gets him there, moaning sweet and breathy when he manages to grind his prostate right into Pat’s stiff straining cock -

Oh, fuck, Pat still hasn’t responded. Ugh, shit. He taps out, shakily - 

_gonna be so tight around me_  
_i can feel you, so hot, like temp hot too_  
_hear you moaning my name_

God, that’s fucking trite, that’s not _anything_. But Pat’s been up for so long and he’s just got nothing left in him. Plus, he _really_ needs his hands free to keep touching himself, he is _stupid_ hard for stupid sexy Brian and it’s like an itch he can’t scratch, singing in his veins under his skin, his cock _throbbing_ and leaking pretty steadily now. He drops the phone entirely and lets his other hand touch all across his chest, scratching the wrong way through his pubic hair, thumbing at his hipbones and his nipples. He lets himself moan out, softly, _Brian_, and it sounds fucking _hot,_ so he does it again. _God, Brian, fuck me. _

Brian responds:

_oh, pat. Ohh, Patrick, that sounds so good_  
_yes get me moaning on your cock babe, gonna make so much noise when you’re doing me so right_  
_you’re gonna have to shut me up somehow, slide your fingers in my mouth_  
_i’ll suck you so good while i’m bouncing on your dick, dreaming of blowing you later, run my tongue down along those great big hands of yours and let my teeth catch over the knobs of your knuckles, gag myself on em_  
_i can feel you so deep inside me, pat, you’re gonna fuck the come right outta me_

Fuck, _fuck_. Pat curls up on himself, just a little, his shoulders rising up an inch or two off the bed and his hand absolutely flying on his cock as _that_ fucking tidal-waves through him, and how does Brian just - _say_ shit like that, where is he getting it? Pat has been struggling to write one video script for six hours and Brian, this fuckin’ - English-degree-having, verbose motherfucker, who, fuck, of _course_ , was in an LDR for _years_, probably has _tons_ of experience with this kind of shit, why did Pat ever think he stood a _chance - _

Well, if he’s gonna have any kind of ground to stand on in this, Pat needs to lean into his own - Strengths.

With the willpower of a fucking saint, Pat pulls back from jerking himself off, sits up, and reopens his phone camera. He runs a quick mental calculation or two of what shots he can get, like this, where he can prop his popsocket up for what sorts of angles, how quickly he could get into position. With some clever work at the edge of his desk, Pat gets the first one: a high-contrast lower body shot, with his pajama pants down to mid-thigh and his hard cock jutting up from the thatch of his hair, one hand wrapped near the head and visibly slick with precome, the other spread wide high across his abdomen with his fingertips just barely pressing in, denting against the skin. Then, the second: maybe the most pornographic face Pat has ever made on camera, three-quarter angle, hair a tousled mess, eyelids fluttered shut behind his fogged, askew glasses and his hand curled loose with the flat of his thumb catching on his own lower lip, dragging his mouth open, some of the precome from the other shot still on it - and Pat’s not exactly loving the taste of _that_ but he’s actually really proud of the photograph, his new streaming lights really made a difference. God, he looks _hot_, and as he sends the pictures to Brian he imagines Brian’s reaction, imagines him cursing into the knuckles of his own hand and jerking his own cock, that thick throb from the earlier photos, maybe the wet red head of him peeking up over the waistband of the tiny shorts now that he’s fully plumped up hard and they can’t possibly contain him. 

_ can’t wait to make you come for me  
_ _ give you everything i’ve got, gonna fucking ruin you on my cock brian david gilbert _

It shouldn’t thrill Pat as much as it does that it takes Brian a long, long time to answer. Pat holds himself in fucking - stasis, doesn’t get his hand fully back on himself just yet but edges around his swollen head, waiting, wanting to see what Brian has to say before he just totally loses himself in it again. He actually fucking _grins_ with it, feels like a crazy person laughing at his own suffering, but it’s just - he knows Brian won’t, can’t, possibly disappoint. 

Brian’s not even _here_ and Pat’s still gonna get off harder than he ever has in his life.

_oh god oh fuck, PATRICK!! ♥_  
_dig your fingers in daddy yesss_  
_wanna have bruises from you, look at them later and see you all black and blue against my thighs, be able to tell exactly where those gorgeous hands of yours had me all for yourself_  
_and feel so wet and open and fucked-out from that cock, from splitting myself open on you all fucking night_  
_just FUCK me, pat gill!_  
_(i’m fingering myself now btw so i may not respond for a hot second whooooops! eyo!)_

\-- Jesus _christ,_ there it is, Pat lets his mental image of Brian fully shift from fantasy-Brian riding his cock like a fucking champion to real-life-Brian, twisted sideways in his bed, one hand on his cock one hand teasing up around his rim and _inside_, hips rocking between the two and mouth gasped desperately open and _absolutely pretending it’s Pat, god _, and that’s just fucking. That’s it, for Pat. He _squeezes_ down on his own aching dick and wrings out his orgasm, god he just comes _everywhere_, mostly into his pajama pants thank god because that’s an easier mess to clean but it just keeps coming, wrecking his hand, streaking hot and slick across his thighs, dribbling back down toward his balls. He can feel his chest heaving with it like he ran a marathon, and if he’s not mistaken, he definitely screamed Brian’s name again, there, just the once. 

Post-orgasm Pat somehow finds it in himself to snap a quick cheeky pic of his absolutely ruined pj pants, but he doesn’t send it yet, waits to see how Brian finishes out. He takes a minute to just - sack out, back on his back, catching his breath and fully floating on how fucking hot that was. God, it’s _so_ late and Pat is _so_ exhausted but every millisecond was worth it. 

Oh, god, his script. The whole reason he was up in the first place. Lazily, Pat lolls sideways and shoots a look at his computer monitor, where the tab with Brian’s original deleted lewds is still open, the tease of his Zuko-scratched chest. Geez, it feels like _hours_ ago. 

Still no word from Brian, so Pat sends the last picture - which, like, now that the moment has passed, it’s way more gross than it is hot, but he’s leaning into it. _i came so hard for you_, he captions it, with that one horny drooling emoji.

Moments later, he receives back - a near identical shot, tonally if not compositionally, of Brian from pelvis to collarbone, the Princess Peach tank scrunched up around his armpits and his cock, _yes_, Pat _no-scoped_ it, protruding up from the top of the ill-fitted shorts, with come streaking across his abdomen. Woooof, that’s good shit. Pat saves it immediately, as if Brian could take this one away from him at any moment now, too.

_right back atcha, babe,_ says Brian.  
_so now what, hmmmm? _

And Pat - feels the tension, in that, okay. That Gee-and-Gee, Ess-Three tension, that guillotine tension, that curdles in his gut just a tiny bit, because like, Brii-ann, don’t ruin the fucking afterglow, here. But he knows it for the loaded question it is, no matter how _caszh_ Brian’s trying to play it, and he knows he should answer it in kind. Find the right words, the _good_ words, to say, to tell Brian how hot this was and how hot _he_ is and how badly Pat wants to do it again, as soon as possible, as often as possible, for as far into the foreseeable future as possible. He’s done with the bullshit. He’s _ready_.

But fuck it, he really hasn’t been having a lot of luck with words tonight. 

Pat leaves Brian’s dirty bathroom selfies open in the background, but brings his writing window to the foreground, and takes a picture of his own hand, silhouetted against the glow of the monitor, flipping the whole thing off.

_ wanna come over tomorrow and help me write a script? _

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [guess I’ll have to take this trip without you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23857402) by [Trigonometrical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trigonometrical/pseuds/Trigonometrical)


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